


drama free

by clehjett



Category: Polar (2019)
Genre: Anxiety, BPD, Cynicism, Depression, Domesticity and Violence, F/M, Fluff, Love Stories, Mental Health Issues, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 08:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18494956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clehjett/pseuds/clehjett
Summary: Duncan has resolved his 'retirement problem' and parted ways with Camille. Confident she can survive on her own now, he moves again to somewhere more populated in the hopes of disappearing into the crowd. He finds a kinship with a young woman whom he does not wish to bring into his world. But as always with people who hold people's lives in their hands like commodities, that never is the case.





	drama free

**Author's Note:**

> First Polar fanfic that started as a cathartic exercise of what i wish Duncan could have. Poor guy has had enough he just wants to rest but he's also dead bored so. He has to find something to do somewhere. Hard to describe retirement, especially retirement for assassins since i'm only into my first internship, but i am basing this solely on Mads Mikkelsen's portrayal and a hint of John Wick since we all saw the parallels coming
> 
> Note on this OC, she's basically me and what i could be like if i met the Black Kaiser. But better. Or what i hope someone like Duncan who sees too much would do when faced with someone like me
> 
> References to some unhealthy coping mechanisms, mental health issues, etc. so thread carefully if you are uncomfortable with that stuff
> 
> But that being said, if you are, you really should not be watching Polar. That show was dead gruesome, not as much as Game of Thrones but still disturbing in more than just in the head.
> 
> This is very much a WIP and it just flows out as it wants to flow out as it does when i'm sitting at my desk at work pretending to work so i apologise if you are invested. But i thank you for it

Duncan had slept with many women in his life, all of them ideal in their own way. From the whores, to the targets, targets’ wives – even Vivian – though she may have been vindictive and ruthless, traits which Duncan admired in her, was perfect in her way. Her limpid blue eyes and her sincere determination, they were all idealized women and idealized bodies. 

But Sara – she was beautiful. She had large thighs, large rear and soft obvious belly, and stretch marks to dot all of them – things she hated about herself more than she hated her personality. For if there was one thing people could ignore but desire in another regard, was a physical desire for the body. And she found she lacked in both. She disliked her ‘boring’ brown eyes, her small almond shaped lids, her small round nose – plain features she said, unremarkable. But to Duncan, she was perfect in her imperfections. What stood out to her in comparison to all the women he had come across, was her fiery personality, the calm conviction, her fragility in self-awareness - they were insignificant compared to her. Duncan found he loved to hold her close, the softness of her skin and flesh, to feel the marks on her skin under his fingertips, the shape of her in every way. Duncan wondered once if it was because he loved her on the inside – as cliché as it sounded – that it endeared him to the rest of her. But he found this to be untrue. And he rarely was wrong in his intuition. Sara was a perfect woman, and he loved her. He liked that she was different in every way. He liked her because she was imperfect - that meant that she was real

Even if she had not opened to him physically, he was more than happy to be near her. He could not be less interested in sex, just her heart. Duncan realized that this was love and it was achingly simple and pure. But he also knew that even if she did, he would love her gently, or in any way she preferred. He would not fuck her the way he did any other woman. It would be about her, her pleasure, her love and her heart and he would be damned if he made a mistake here. 

He looked over at her out the corner of his eye, as he always did, keeping an eye on her at all times, as she counted with a slender finger each and every one of Duncan’s handguns – safeties on – she insisted, to catalogue so he would not misplace them for enemies to find or children to hurt themselves. He smiled to himself at the thought of her – his one good thing, trying to keep him safe and secure – in her own way, helping him and protecting him and the image of her so removed from his world yet being relatively unfazed by it and even embracing it to some extent. It made his heart warm and hope in a way he had not dared to hope in many years – that perhaps this would last. For once. 

“Duncan.” she said 

“Hmm?” he grunted, unable to keep the tiny smile from his lips but knowing that his moustache did little to hide it. He stood up with a grunt and walked over to her, his boots thumping on the wooden flooring and came to stand by her at the coffee table. 

“This is way too many for a handgun collection. I see the point of having maybe 3, but this....” she gestured, exasperated. “This is excessive. A hundred and ten is pushing it for safety.” she rolled her eyes at him, but Duncan could see the fondness, the love he daresay. She splayed her hands over the rows of guns tediously laying out on the table like bananas curled against each other row by row, ready to be unloaded and used. To Duncan, this was as meticulous as it was beautiful – as any agent would want to be with their tools of trade. But to her, this was a mess – a collection of hoarded goods which she had to tackle. For Duncan, this made him smile. Where to him this was a good sign of a good agent, to her, was a problem. 

“Can never be too careful.” he simply replied, kissing her head of brown curls. He lifted one, a pearl white handled, rimmed with gold trim, and handed it to her. She took it with careful hands – like one would accept an expensive gift which one would put in a case to admire but not touch and use – markers of a hand unused to weaponry, but aware of its power. “This one suits you.” 

Sara’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Oh no! You already gave me one for protection and that’s enough for me... I have been practicing diligently, you know that, but I am not going to let you outfit me like some Gun Barbie.” She laughed, wagging her finger at him and looking up at him and shoving him ineffectively in the chest. Duncan simply smiled, taking the gun from her, and making a mental note to keep it aside for her, despite her objections. He loved giving her gifts, for one, because she hated receiving them, her cynicism naturally distrusting - for she simply did not know how to receive them, and experience told her that if men gave gifts, it was not for free. And, because he wanted her to see how much he cared. She was surprisingly empathetic and observant, traits which if she were an agent herself, would be greatly valued and harnessed. But to Duncan, these were things that would keep her safe. To her, it was something that made her better at taking care of Duncan, maintaining this relationship to which she had no experience, and there would be none either way, as it was not very often that assassins would ‘date’ per se. He wanted her to be able to keep herself strong and independent, so that she would always be able to protect herself. He did not want her to lose that humanity that agents like Vivian had lost early to become who she had become, but to be safe and secure. He loved that she took to gun training with relative fascination and ease, and was grateful for her relative unease at guns itself, but that she understood the necessity of it, especially given his previous occupation, and the whole ‘company trying to kill him off for his pension and hurting Camille’ debacle. 

 

“You’re different.” she said. Hands kept to herself but eyes piercing and discerning. Weeks of running into her on busses, streets and the one 7-Eleven in the block, and finally Duncan could settle for a normal conversation with her. He had first observed her eyeing a woman’s purse hanging out of her pocket. He remained silent behind her, curious as to what would happen, and what he would do when it did. He did not want to stir up attention as roughing up a young woman, but he also was curious as to what he should do. To his surprise, instead of pinching the wallet and pocketing it herself, she gently pried it out of the pocket, to the absolute ignorance of the relatively well-dressed woman in line in front of her and patted her shoulder. 

“Ma’am?” the woman turned. “Your wallet was falling out of your pocket. You really should put it somewhere safer and make sure it is out of sight.” The woman blanched and for lack of better option, thanked her and slid her wallet into her purse and zipped it up, awkwardly smiling and stepping forward in the line. The young woman smiled to herself and turned back to her phone, reading lines of small words which maybe 20 years earlier, Duncan might be able to read without his glasses. But unfortunately, he could only stare down at the back of her head, she discreetly turning her phone down to her buxom but clothed chest to shield whatever the contents were from prying eyes such as Duncan’s. 

Truth be told such behaviour intrigued the former Damocles agent. A social norm was crossed and yet entirely conformed. The girl could have simply stolen it, as most easy prey could have been taken advantage of, but instead she advised her would-be victim to be more cautious. Not only does this draw extra attention to her subtle skill at pickpocketing, but also her altruistic action was unusual – at least to someone like Duncan that had seen the worst one could see in the world. Over the coming days, he observed her and her keen eyes, at first, he had the slight inkling that this was a fellow killer – assassin hiding in plain sight, even though his instinct told him otherwise. But over the course of his observation of this girl, he found that his instincts were right. She worked as an intern at the museum, studied some sort of subject relating to the Arts online, and had a penchant for video games. She had a relatively cool relationship with her parents and had a brother whom she rarely spoke to. She stopped by the 7-Eleven almost every morning to buy a snack or drink for the day, and once bought a coffee with no sugar instead at the coffeeshop next door on a morning she looked particularly sleepy. She was completely ordinary apart from her unusual awareness and intelligence. Because Duncan was not the only one observing his target. Duncan realized that she too noticed his attention. Her tired eyes on the second floor of the double-decker bus would be scrolling through songs on her phone, earpiece tucked in, but she would turn down to observe the street and spy him watching her discreetly – perhaps not so discreetly, judging from his experience ‘noticing’ Camille in another town, in another state. He’d pass her at the 7-Eleven, and Duncan knew that she probably suspected him a creepy middle-aged stalker. But he stayed well clear of her, making sure to broadcast his actions as non-threatening and stayed away from her. Duncan could see she was keenly self-aware – straightening her posture regularly, side-stepping when people approached, paying for her goods with a deliberate nod, eyes always watching despite her relative anonymity – she was an enigma of sorts which intrigued Duncan to say the least. 

“Different, how?” He asked, sipping at his coffee. It was strangely reminiscent of his first conversation with a different girl, at a different time, but this was a different person. 

“Well, for one you stare a lot.” Sara comments, idly picking at her nails in what Duncan can see is a nervous gesture. “And another because you seem like the type of person who is very sure of themselves. You’re very self-assured unlike most people. You have leisure time and yet you possess restless energy which suggests you might be retired or well enough off that you do not have a place to be, earning money and so on.” Sara looks blankly. She looks pensive, staring at Duncan, as if she is scanning his life with just her eyes and Duncan has the strangest urge to hide his eyes which are staring back at her. “You have the air of someone who knows what they’re doing and yet you have nowhere to be. You are in good shape for a man your age and that suggest that you did not or do not have a sedentary desk job. But you are well-worn, like your job has taken its toll on you but you are not weak, simply...world-weary, like your job has taken a lot out of you but your mind is sharp.” Sara pauses and blinks, as if she has run out of words to read on a page. “I... really don’t know what to make of you.” Sara concludes. She ducks her head then, as if embarrassed by her onslaught of information. 

“Sorry...” her cheek twitches almost instinctively, she makes eye contact with the ex-assassin like she just stepped on his shoe. “I have a very bad brain-mouth filter. I just forgot to put it back on sometime during my teens after I realized it made people more receptive to me. They underestimate me and infantilize me. Never good at making friends. So, I just watched them.” Sara falls silent then, nursing her tea which is still scalding enough for her not to be able to take a sip to make use of her hands. Duncan almost balks in disbelief, but years of training in stoicism has made it easier to school his features. This woman was more observant than he gave her credit for. If he were a scout, he would recruit her at once. Duncan is glad that she does not feel the need to wait for validation, even though he senses that she silently yearns for it, and that he does not have to grace her with his own answers immediately, small talk being his weakness. He gives her a small laugh, which reassures her and smiles genuinely for the first time in years. 

“You’re a good reader.” Duncan smiled, the woman looked stunned, uncertain, as if the response was unusual, or perhaps was one that did not happen often. Duncan expected that most people were either kind – to smile and accept her eccentricities – or were apathetic, keeping a distance from the strange girl and her keen eyes and loose tongue. “I appreciate honesty more than propriety... of course, that means I don’t have many friends either. We are alike in that way.” Duncan offered a doctored smile. The woman saw through it, but offered a smile in return, as if grateful that this person could accept her weirdness so easily. “And you are very self-aware, perhaps uncomfortably so. I understand how that might make you feel lonely.” 

The girl laughed, “This feels like a therapy session. Were you a psychiatrist?” Duncan merely smirked. 

“No. Something less respectable...”


End file.
